The Things I Could Dream About
by Little Obsessions
Summary: Morticia has a dream that leaves her wanting...


_This was just a wee bit of fun! Hope you enjoy it! _

Morticia rose from her bed, stumbling over a set of books that she had left lying on her floor, only to stumble across another pile a few feet away. This, she decided was the epitome of loneliness. It was on her to-do-list before she died to find someone to share her life with. But this very task had become a problem in itself. Her only waking thought was her boss, at her job, who looked at her in ways that made her feel both uncomfortable and aroused all at the same time. So instead she had found solace in books and thoughts of him. And this was evident from the moment she woke to the moment she closed her eyes.

The bathroom in her small suburban house was not hard to reach, nor fulfilling at all and white everywhere - with a set of ceramic ducks that had caught her eye a few months ago. These ducks made her feel uncomfortable as she stared at them, sitting contemptuously on the cistern. They made her want to claw at her own skin.

She sighed slowly, contemplating herself in the mirror. It was not a pretty sight. Reaching for the clasp on the pristinely clean wooden shelf, she tied her greying, ebony hair into a messy chignon and went about dressing.

Her closet, this fine morning, didn't feel right. She contemplated the severely grey suits before her, picking one that seemed just as suitable as all others but with a distinct feeling that these suits weren't right for her. As far as she could remember, they were all she had ever possessed and all she had ever worn too.

In the hallway of her pastel coloured house she stood in front of the cheaply gilded mirror and decided that these suits were not her, that the flat loafers and black stockings did nothing for her exceptional figure. That, she recalled, she had quite never realised she was in possession of before. She shook her head, noting that her vision was blurry; and indeed she was not wearing her horn-rimmed spectacles like she should have been. She shook her head, she was most certainly not herself today.

This too she realised, was the case in the Formica kitchen, where her cat had settled itself on the counter. She had made her lunch, she recalled, the previous evening before and yet she couldn't really remember doing it.

Especially when she realised, with real disgust, that it was tuna. She picked up the foil wrapped creation and dropped it back onto the pristine surface, deciding that on this day she wouldn't be hungry.

With a sense of unfamiliar routine, which was oddly full of familiarity she got into her white car, complete with nodding dog and drove to her job. Almost on auto pilot she traversed her way through the threateningly bland suburb to the small town. Everything was familiar yet nothing seemed right, especially not the way in which she was dressed or the way she was conducting herself. She tried to shake the feeling, suddenly realising she was aware of how to drive though she had never had a driving lesson in her life. This unnerved her more than anything and she nearly mowed down an old lady that was crossing the street. Of course this filled her with a perverted sense of glee.

While the near murder of the old woman had filled her with a warm feeling of belonging, it had all but dispersed by the time she reached the bank. With the dawning sense of not belonging anywhere she sat behind the counter, ready for the shutters to open into the boring morning. Where she would teller money, cash cheques, argue over bonds and have to call (with an inordinate sense of delight) for her boss when the customers became irate.

"Morning, Miss Frump."

The bank manger smiled at her and something startlingly familiar struck her about him, but this was immediately overshadowed by the fact he had called her by an odd name. his dreamy smile was nearly consuming her if it hadn't been for his mistake with her name, with which she was rather offended. A name that most certainly was not hers but yet, seemed as if it was. She was sure her name was something else but could not for the life of her remember what.

"That's not my name," she muttered, finally raising her shy head to look at him. He frowned strangely and his moustache twitched into a smile.

"It is," he laughed kindly, "Unless I am paying another fantastic clerk and you're doing their job."

"Well," she blushed considerably as his eyes gazed over her, "I am sure…." she laughed, "Please I am sorry, I'm just not myself today."  
>he laughed kindly, "Those days are always odd."<p>

"Yes," she smiled again as he walked away, "pas bon."

He turned on his patent heels, "What did you say?"  
>"Not good," she answered in a state of profound embarrassment.<p>

He rocked back and forth on his patent shoes, "Well…just," he laughed loudly, uncomfortably, "Nice to speak to you, Miss Frump."

She watched him go and the thought crossed her mind that his buttocks was delectable. She startled herself with such lurid thoughts, that seemed to reawaken something in her. She sighed with discomfort.

Later that day, after she had cashed numerous checks and dealt with numerous rude customers she made her way across the bank, just to drop off her days takings before heading home to her microwave meal.

"Miss Frump?"

It took her a while to answer to the name but she turned on her heels to stare at her boss, who had peeked his head round his office door.

"Hello Sir," she smiled, noting the cigar hanging from the side of his mouth and how his pinstripe suit sat well on him, as if it had been personally tailored.

"Come in for a moment?"

Feeling utter abandonment, which felt completely wrong because he was her boss and she was not at all supposed to find him attractive, she slowly made her way into his office. Closing the door with a quiet thud behind her.

"I am just going to say it," he paced up and down the carpet, cigar in his mouth, "I find you very attractive."

He came towards her, a smile forming on his lips and pulled her against him, "Damn myself to hell Miss Frump but I just cannot stop thinking about you."

She allowed him kiss her, with the restrained air that felt familiar but as he pushed her against the desk, something else reared up inside her. His hands tore at her white blouse, which had felt uncomfortably modest all day long. His hands on her thighs and the burn of passion was so familiar - though this had never occurred before - that her hands trembled with desperation at the waistband of his trousers.

"Gomez…" she found herself muttering, her lips against his own, "Gomez…"

"Morticia. Morticia?"

…...

"Morticia!"

Her eyes sprung open, another ecstatic cry of 'Gomez' on her lips before it died into the silence of their dark bedroom. In the hearth the fire danced, while she was encased in the silk of the sheets and her night gown. Her husbands pyjama clad form tangled around her.

"I…" her mouth was dry and she rested her head against the pillows, staring up at her husband. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes still narrowed from recent dreams but a smile forming on his countenance. Her recent dreams however had been a tad more provocative than his, she imagined. With a delighted sense of lust she smiled at him. He grinned and raised a brow.

"Tell me," his hand slipped onto her thigh, then lower. He slid his hand down to the hem of her night gown and raised the silk over her leg. "Were you dreaming about me? I would know the way you said my name anywhere, in that dream…what exactly were you dreaming about?"

"It was odd," she laughed, "Very surreal."

"Gomez, Gomez…" he mocked in a very bad attempt to emulate her low, breathy tone. His lips landed on her collarbone, his tongue flicking over the suddenly, painfully hot skin.

She raised a brow, "For all you claim to have heard it numerous times, Mon cher, your impression of it isn't entirely accurate."

"No," he conceded and bent to her ear, "But I imagine I can make you do a re-enactment. Tell me what it was about."

"I was…" she shook her head, "A boring bank clerk, with no life and a house in the suburbs."

He looked horrified as she recounted her dream, "And I had these horrifying ceramic ducks," she shuddered, "Anyway….you were my boss, at the bank."

"Oh?" He laughed, his hand travelling to her shoulder. She placed her hand over his, assisting him with removing her straps and encouraging him lightly. Her hand travelled down between their bodies and she was rewarded with a groan.

"I called you 'sir'," she whispered, smiling devilishly.

"You did?"

He pulled her up, while she grappled for the tie of his pyjamas. She couldn't reach them at the odd angle of his body, so made for his shirt instead, tangling her fingers in his chest hair. He cried out in pain.

"Sorry my love," she wrestled his shirt from his body. Her apology had been unexpected by both entangled parties for generally, pain was an inert part of their lovemaking. Tonight however was one of those rare evenings where the heat was unbearable and their only interest was each other and the shared passion.

"Sorry what?"

She frowned at him, stopping mid-way as she pulled his pyjama trousers from his body and threw them to the floor.

"Pardon?"

He sat up and pulled her to sit in his lap, "Sorry what?"

"Oh," she smiled coquettishly and wrapped her legs around his waist, the initial contact of their bodies joining almost too much to bear, so that both were left momentarily speechless.

"I'm sorry _sir._"

"Good," he laughed and groaned as she moved against him, "You should have dreams more often my love…"

She kissed his lips forcefully, "Oh the things I could dream about…"

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><p><em>Love reviews if you have a wee moment =) <em>


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